


Number One Recreational Dreamshare Agency

by bauble



Series: NORDA [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20147107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written forInception Bingo.   The prompt:reincarnation.





	Number One Recreational Dreamshare Agency

"If I have to tell one more arsehole that I am not having sex with him while forging Beyoncé, I can't be held responsible for what violence I might inflict," Eames rants as they head home after yet another unsuccessful client pitch. 

"I know, baby," Arthur says, wondering whether it'd really be so bad if Eames—and stops that train of thought. Eames would probably not respond kindly to being pimped out. "We'll give this guy a pass. Do you have any other potential clients in the pipeline?"

Eames shifts in his seat and looks out the window. "Not—exactly."

Arthur sighs.

Once you hit a certain level of notoriety and fame in criminal dreamshare, there are three options for moving on: retire (voluntarily or not); become a pathetic dream junkie perpetually hooked up to a PASIV in a dark basement somewhere; or take up residence in a body bag. 

He always figured he'd fall into the last category, going out in a hail of gunfire or something equally epic. But after accumulating a stupid collection of gunshot wounds and finding in Eames someone he both likes and likes to fuck, retirement started to look surprisingly appealing.

Thus: Number One Recreational Dreamshare Agency was born, or NORDA for short. Eames hates the name but hasn't offered any alternatives Arthur likes better.

Their biggest problem is finding people who have a certain level of disposable income that'll actually pay for a custom dream experience. Arthur assumed that his sterling reputation and experience would bring in a line of eager, paying customers.

But so far it's been same refrain over and over: _you did excellent work and your professionalism was second to none. But I can't be connected to legitimate dreamshare (because of the crimes I hired you to commit)._

Fucking useless, is what that is. Arthur doesn't need kudos, he needs cash. He sank a significant portion of the payout from Saito's inception job into equipment, an office, and other expenses—he doesn't want to keep self-funding this business forever. If he's footing the entire bill, at some point it becomes another self-indulgent rich douchebag's hobby, not a job. He suspects that Eames would be more than comfortable with that state of affairs, but Arthur's not forty yet, and still too restless to settle down with a garden somewhere.

Arthur pulls into the parking deck of his apartment building and ponders what takeout to order. He's hungry as hell and although Eames is good for a lot of things, meal preparation is not one of them. Eames has also been no use on the customer prospecting side of things, seeing as he's double-crossed several employers in dreamshare, endearing him to few. He has been quite useful on the dick-sucking and morale-boosting front, though.

They end up ordering Mexican. Eames listens to Arthur gripe over tacos. 

"All we need is a few customers to take a chance on our business. Everyone else doing recreational dreams is a hack. Ambrose can barely design a house, much less a whole level. Neckermann is so incompetent I'm surprised he hasn't shot himself in the face topside yet. And don't even get me started on Xander Cheng," Arthur says, mouth full of juicy carnitas. "Between the you and me, we have an architect, a forger, and over a decade of experience in the field. We should be cleaning up!" Eames hums in patient agreement as Arthur continues, "Fuck, Cobb made business development seem so easy."

Eames' face turns to stone the way it usually does at any mention of Cobb. But he does say, reluctantly, "The man does know how to prospect and pitch clients, I'll give him that."

Arthur finishes his taco and swipes his mouth with a napkin. He considers his options: continue on his fruitless quest to convince former clients to hire him for non-criminal activities; attempt to poach clients from their recreational dreamshare competitors; or find an entirely new source of customers.

He studies Eames, considers his mood. Could be better, Arthur decides, and slides down to his knees. "Hey," Arthur says as he slips between Eames' thighs. "Ready for dessert?"

Eames nods around a mouthful of burrito with considerable enthusiasm and spreads his legs.

It's no hardship to unzip Eames and suck his soft cock erect. They've been together a year now and there's familiarity, but still some newness to it all, a startled thrill for Arthur when he wakes up next to someone who looks like Eames. Arthur's fucked hot men before, even dated a few of the less crazy ones. But Eames is that rare combination of looks, intelligence, and amoral charm that causes Arthur to check his totem, occasionally, and wonder if he's slipped into limbo with a projection lover.

Then Eames burps as he comes and Arthur concludes that no, this is someone his subconscious could not have developed in a million years.

"My favorite flavor of dessert," Eames murmurs as he pulls Arthur up for a lazy kiss.

"Your come?" Arthur teases. "Because I don't think you really need me for that."

"But of course I do. I prefer my ejaculate warmed and deposited directly into my gaping maw like a baby bird."

Arthur laughs against Eames' mouth. "Okay, that's actually pretty foul."

"Foul or fowl?" Eames asks with a waggle of his eyebrows while Arthur continues to laugh.

Arthur forgets what he originally wanted to ask when Eames touches Arthur's cock, bends down to give the head a series of silly kisses, pulls ridiculous faces all the while. Arthur's snorting with laughter as he comes, something he never could have imagined doing with anyone before, much less with Eames.

* * * * *

It's later, when they're getting ready for bed, that Arthur remembers. He waits for Eames to settle between the sheets before saying, "About finding new clients."

"Mmm." Eames plumps up the pillows on his side of the bed, probably expecting another rant.

Arthur takes a deep breath. "I think it's time for you to go to your family."

Eames freezes, mid-pillow punch. "Pardon?"

"I know they're not your favorite, but they know about dreamshare and have the funds to—"

"No." Eames gives up on the pillow and flops down on his back. "No."

"Baby—"

"Don't you 'baby' me." Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought you had other prospects?"

"I lied so it wouldn't seem like this business is failing," Arthur says. "I've tapped all my leads and come up empty. We need clients, we need referrals, we need testimonials—and that could start with just one of your relatives."

"What about your family?" Eames demands. "Why does it have to be mine?"

"Because my family—the few that are still alive—is made up of deadbeats and drug addicts," Arthur says. "They don't know anything about dreamshare, and if they did, I'm sure they wouldn't like it because it's not in the bible. Meanwhile, your family owns half of Wales."

"It's a modest estate," Eames says. "And I haven't spoken to them in years, which has been one of the great triumphs of my life."

"Yes, but NORDA needs this," Arthur says. "Do this for NORDA."

"Darling, you know how many fucks I give about NORDA."

Arthur sighs. He does know. "None."

"Precisely." 

Arthur shuffles closer to press against Eames' side. "Please?"

Eames eyes him balefully. "Give me one good reason--unrelated to this project about which you know I do not care --why I should break my tenderly cultivated estrangement."

"Because you're falling in love with me and want to see me happy?" Arthur offers what he hopes is a winning smile and not a deranged grimace.

"Ugh." Eames thumbs a dimple and then turns his face away. "I hope you know how deeply I disapprove of your using my weaknesses against me."

"I am going to give you so many blowjobs," Arthur says as he kisses Eames' stubborn jaw. "You're going to say to me, _stop it, Ah-thah, my bloody cock is tired._ But I won't stop, because that's how good you are to me."

"I do not sound like that." Eames sniffs as he yields to Arthur's kissing assault. "And I don't believe it's physically possible to receive too many blowjobs."

"You say that now," Arthur says as he works his way down Eames' chest.

* * * * *

Eames, with many deep sighs, eventually calls his family. Arthur does his best to make these conversations go smoothly by sucking him off before, after, and sometimes during—especially when Eames gets that pinched expression around his normally mobile mouth. 

Listening to Eames talk to his relatives is a trip. He gets a drawl along with the clip at the end of his sentences that signals he's angry (it took Arthur several months to figure out what it meant when he first encountered it). He also spends most of the conversation alternating between staring dead-eyed into space and shaking his head disdainfully.

After a few rounds of calls, Eames has a well-tended dick that almost negates the scowl, and NORDA has its first paying client.

* * * * *

Arthur cracks open a bottle of champagne while he reviews the dossier on Temperance Henrietta Anstruther-Wortley-Trefusis, Eames' great grand-aunt's friend's sister's something or another. She's an elderly widow with a sizeable residence and a pet frog with whom she apparently enjoys long afternoon chats. Arthur thought Eames was joking when he first mentioned her, but as he continued describing her in mournful detail, Arthur realized this was part of the weird shit he'd never really get about Eames, much like his affinity for erotic teddy bears and shitty soccer teams.

Instead of celebrating with Arthur, Eames clutches his head in a truly melodramatic manner and moans, "I can't believe I had to ask those arsemongers for a favor. What's worse: they now all know that I'm seeking gainful employment as an entrepreneur. Like some bloody French fish merchant."

"I'm sensing a lot of class and cultural baggage that I don't really get." Arthur holds out the champagne bottle. "Alcohol?"

Eames accepts it and takes a deep swig, though his mood doesn't seem to improve. "Might as well."

Arthur hums as he sidles up to Eames from behind. "How about sex? Would that help?"

Eames presses his ass back against Arthur's crotch. "Perhaps, though I couldn't say for certain without some highly scientific testing."

"I'll show you scientific," Arthur promises as he continues his campaign to lift Eames' spirits, among other things.

* * * * *

Arthur expected Temperance to be eccentric. What he didn't expect was a genuine desire to hook her pet up to the PASIV because she believes it's the reincarnation of her dead husband.

After a long silence, Arthur says, "I don't think our equipment is currently capable of entering the dreams of a—frog."

She's disappointed, but with some (a lot of) encouragement and guidance from Eames, she requests a recreation of a memory involving her dead husband.

"I'm not forging my great aunt's husband," Eames says to Arthur later, in private.

"You're related?" Arthur replies, surprised.

"By marriage, several times removed," Eames replies. "Regardless, my point stands. I don't want to discover first-hand what she does with that frog when no one is watching."

"I don't know, could be hot," Arthur replies. "Some incestuous septuagenarian action with a side of amphibiphilia? Unexpected perks of NORDA could be all yours." 

Eames shudders. "I can't even joke about this possibility, it's that ghastly."

They eventually settle on an evening at a pub in Cardiff that Temperance and her husband enjoyed in their youth. It's still in existence and hasn't changed much in the past few hundred years, making it easy for Arthur to reconstruct and tweak for historical accuracy.

"If I don't forge her dear old Aloysius, who is she going to relive this delightfully gin-tinged memory with?" Eames asks.

"Maybe the projection of her dead husband will show up if we set the stage correctly," Arthur hazards. "Hopefully in human and not animal form?"

"This doesn't seem like much of a plan," Eames says, dubious.

It's not, really, and they don't have a fallback other than Eames stepping in with said forgery and winging it, something which displeases him mightily. If it comes to that, Arthur's going to have to buy a pair of kneepads for all the deepthroated groveling he'll have to do.

At least Arthur can handle everything else. The appointment is set, the dream level is constructed, and an indifferent teenager is hired to watch over their bodies topside. Everything goes off, improbably, without a hitch.

The pub looks great, and everything feels appropriately old timey, with a nostalgic glow around the edges. The projections look like extras out of a period drama, providing a gentle hum of nonsense spoken with Welsh accents.

Temperance appears at the door her present day age, but sheds years with every step forward. Once she reaches the bar, she's a plump twenty-something being hit on by some redhead.

"That doesn't look like Aloysius," Arthur remarks quietly from the other side of the room. He frowns when she starts making out with said redhead.

"That's because it's not." Eames points to a gangly brunet who seems none too happy with the situation. "He is."

Temperance pulls away from the redhead as Aloysius storms over. There's a heated exchange of words between the three of them. It results in several punches being thrown, some shouting, and everyone else fleeing the pub.

Meanwhile, Temperance sits on a barstool, one hand clutched to her chest while she watches with unmitigated glee.

"Do you want to… do something?" Arthur asks as the projection of Aloysius pummels the redhead, bloody teeth flying to the ground.

"Certainly not," Eames says, taking a sip of his Guinness. "Do you think he actually kills the man and they shag on his bloody corpse?" 

"Guess not," Arthur says as Aloysius stands, leaving the redhead unconscious on the ground as he sweeps Temperance into his arms. "This is the guy she thinks came back as a frog?"

"Thank Christ I didn't have to forge him," Eames says. "This is not where I thought their encounter would go."

They wait for the timer to run down, watching Temperance fuss and fawn over Aloysius, kiss his raw knuckles. Thankfully, no clothes come off before they wake up to the teenage attendant saying in an unenthusiastic monotone, "Number One Recreational Dreamshare Agency welcomes you back to reality and hopes you enjoyed your custom dream experience."

Temperance is giddy with joy as she sits up and pets her frog in an alarmingly lascivious manner. She burbles happily about how the dream captured her memory spot on, how Aloysius was so handsome and perfect, and how she'd be thrilled to refer all her friends.

"Very happy to hear that," Arthur says and nudges Eames until he mutters something similar. "We do offer a small discount for returning customers so please, feel free to call us again!"

* * * * *

Arthur cashes NORDA's first check with a great sense of satisfaction, excited to see a non-zero balance in the bank account at last. 

True to her word, Temperance spreads the gospel about NORDA to all her friends and acquaintances. Within weeks, they're swamped with calls from little old ladies desperate to relive their glory days. 

It's an ongoing family reunion for Eames since he's apparently related to all the wealthy elderly in Britain. This makes him cranky, but now that they have actual revenue, Arthur can pay Eames in cash money in addition to blowjobs, which helps. At least these clients aren't requesting forged sexual services from Eames—for the most part.

In the meanwhile, Arthur's not getting shot at, gets to sleep all day, and couldn't be happier.

fin


End file.
